


a stained glass variation of the truth

by withthekeyisking



Series: Sladick Fics [29]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Creepy Slade Wilson, Dissociation, Hurt Dick Grayson, M/M, Open-ish ending, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Spit As Lube, Victim Blaming, alfred is an excellent parent through thorough attention, bruce is a bad parent through inattention, no capes AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:48:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25399408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: As far back as Dick can remember, the head of Wilson Industries—Wayne Enterprise's main competitor—has always had a certain level of focus on him. It got harder to ignore as he got older, but it's not like Slade ever tried anything, so Dick always did his best to pretend like the man's presence didn't make him uncomfortable.It's impossible to ignore when Slade corners him alone, taking a break from one of Bruce's parties.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Series: Sladick Fics [29]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1307747
Comments: 31
Kudos: 363





	a stained glass variation of the truth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greyheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyheart/gifts).



> Happy birthday my friend! As you know, your planned bday gift fic wasn't gonna be finished for today, but I didn't want to leave you with nothing on the actual day! So I wrote this; we talked about this idea a while back, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Title from _Neptune_ by Sleeping At Last

Dick laughs as Tim tugs on his arm, pulling him into the center of the ballroom and through the crowd of dancing people. A woman in a far too expensive dress gives them a dirty look, but Dick ignores it, grinning as his little brother pulls him into a ridiculous version of a waltz.

It's been a couple of weeks since Dick's seen his family, having been on a cross-country road trip with his friends. Despite having spent a majority of his life growing up with Bruce—and thus traveling quite a lot—there's still so much Dick hasn't seen, and it was nice to get away with his friends to go see the Grand Canyon and the world's largest ball of twine.

He missed his family, but it was nice to get out of Gotham for a little while. Things could get pretty intense here, under the spotlight of being Bruce Wayne's son, and these parties especially had become...rather uncomfortable for Dick, as of late. So when Roy suggested a getaway, Dick had jumped on the chance.

Now, though, Dick's happy to be back. All his siblings have been happy to see him, and even Bruce had seemed quite content through the day. Ending his return day out with a fun time with his siblings at one of Bruce's stuffy parties seems like the best reintroduction to Gotham, even if it's meant dealing with all the old harpies and the reporters asking him far too personal questions about why he left.

"Excuse me!" someone shouts, affronted, as Dick and Tim swing just a little too close, and Tim stammers out an apology between his laughs, making Dick grin. It's nice to see Tim so carefree; all of Dick's younger siblings can get so serious, so locked up in their own heads, that any time they actually act their age it makes Dick extremely happy.

Hell, Tim's only fifteen years old! He deserves to have some fun every once in a while. They can't all be Bruce, Mr. All-Work-And-No-Play. Dick discovered very early on that he couldn't exist like that, that he needed connections to people outside of Bruce's world to survive, to deal with the workload that's thrust upon you simply by being a Wayne. Jason learned much the same, and Cass has always been different, but Tim and Damian—well, Dick worries about them sometimes.

When the band ends the song, Dick and Tim break apart with matching grins and applaud, ignoring the dirty looks they've been getting. Dick's sure their lack of decorum will be talked about for a while to come, but Dick can't bring himself to care. That's a _later_ issue.

"Water break?" Tim suggests, and Dick nods his agreement, following his little brother over to the bar on the side of the ballroom.

As Tim flags down the bartender to ask for a couple bottles of water, Dick glances around, scanning the ballroom. He spots Bruce over on the other side, surrounded by a large crowd and making them all laugh. Jason and Cass, he sees, are dancing, Cass with a grin on her face and Jason with bright red, embarrassed cheeks that make Dick chuckle. Damian is nowhere to be seen, but Dick isn't surprised by that; the boy sneaks in and out of these things minute to minute. He'll turn up eventually.

"Here you go," Tim says, offering Dick a bottle, and Dick accepts it with a quiet word of thanks.

The pair of them stand there in companionable silence, watching the room around them as they catch their breaths.

At one point, Dick hears Tim's breath hitch in his chest, and glances over to see his little brother's attention fixed on the group that have just walked in the front door. Dick smirks when he understands who, exactly, has caught his attention.

"Conner sure looks handsome in his suit," Dick says teasingly.

Tim shoots him an exasperated look, but a blush is beginning to dust his cheeks.

"Go on," Dick encourages. "Go have fun with your friend. Leave me to my people watching."

Tim bites his lip, indecisive, but then nods sharply and takes off through the crowd without another word.

Dick chuckles and takes another sip of his water, relaxing back against the bar and humming along to the music the live band is playing.

"Fancy seeing you here, Richard."

Dick very specifically does not tense or startle, but he can't help the way he swallows anxiously before his eyes cut to the side, looking at the person who's joined him at the bar.

Slade Wilson cuts an imposing figure, but that's nothing new. With his large build and suit that probably costs more than an entire semester of education at Gotham U, it's not hard for people to be intimidated by Slade, Dick included. It doesn't help that despite the fact that Slade is so big, Dick never hears him approaching until he's right next to him.

"We are at Wayne Manor," Dick points out, keeping his voice even. He glances around again, taking comfort from the sight of his family spread through the room.

"True," Slade allows, "but you've been... _absent,_ lately. Just surprised to see you pop back up." His ice blue eye scans Dick up and down, slow enough that it has Dick fighting the urge to stiffen. "You look _very_ well."

Dick's hand tightens involuntarily around his water bottle in response to the slightly suggestive tone of the other man's words, and it makes the plastic crinkle tellingly. Slade's lips quirk in a small, amused smirk.

"Thank you," Dick says tightly. He keeps his attention on where Jason and Cass are taking a break on a bench across the room, Jason's jacket removed and draped around Cass' shoulders as he gestures widely with his hands, telling some story that has her captivated.

Slade steps closer, close enough that his arm brushes against Dick's own where it rests on the bar top. Dick's jaw clenches, and he forces it to relax. It's fine, everything's fine. He's fine.

As long as Dick can remember, Slade has been rather... _focused_ on him. Always paying him lots of attention at these kinds of events, or asking after him in meetings with Bruce, or inviting him to check out Wilson Industries if WE ever got too dull. He was never...inappropriate, per say. Not in any way Dick could point out. Not until he was of age, of course.

Things changed when Dick turned eighteen. Slade got bolder, more outright. Touches started lingering, comments started having clear innuendo. Dick could never pinpoint _before_ that why Slade made him uncomfortable, since the man never _actually_ did anything, but it was brought into startling clarity once Dick was legal.

Dick plays nice, because he has to. Wilson Industries is the second most powerful company in Gotham, Bruce's main competitor in a number of areas. It's better for them all to be civil, to be on companionable terms. It makes everything go so much more smoothly, and definitely looks better to the press.

But if Dick had his say?

Well, he'd already be across the room, as far away from Slade Wilson as he could possibly get, and he would stay there.

"Did you enjoy your time away?" Slade asks. It's a polite question, but the way he murmurs it paired with how close he is makes it feel far more intimate than Dick is in any way comfortable with.

 _Enjoyed my time away from you,_ Dick thinks to himself. Out loud he says, "I did. My friends and I had a good time."

"That's good," Slade says, nodding in approval. "Young people like you need to have fun, you're all far too serious. Wayne works you too hard."

Dick opens his mouth to retort that his father does no such thing—despite having thought something very similar just a little bit ago—but the words die in his throat when Slade's hand lifts, settling warm and large on his shoulder and squeezing slightly.

Dick turns away, towards the bartender, and breathes a sigh of relief when Slade releases him, allowing him to pull away.

"Vodka martini, please," Dick requests, feeling the strong desire for alcohol, and the bartender nods.

"Are you even old enough to drink?" Slade asks, sounding amused.

Dick doesn't believe for a single second that Slade doesn't know _exactly_ how old he is. But all the same, he says, "Twenty-two, as of March."

Slade makes a sound of acknowledgment. Dick can feel him watching him, but keeps his own gaze on the bartender's movements, resolutely staring at the way the man goes through the motions of making the martini.

"Richard," Slade begins.

"I prefer Dick," Dick interrupts, just to be contrary.

"Oh, I know," Slade responds, chuckling, and the implication in his voice makes Dick's cheeks heat with embarrassment, even though he has _nothing_ to be embarrassed about.

"Here you go," the bartender says, offering Dick his drink, and Dick smiles in thanks before taking a long sip. The alcohol burns going down; Dick's never really been a big drinker, so he has to fight the urge to wrinkle his nose at the sensation.

With no remaining excuse, Dick looks back to Slade. The man is still watching him, smirking slightly, and Dick once again fights the urge to tense at the way Slade is looking at him.

God, he already misses being on the road with his friends. Being ogled or hit on is nothing new, will probably always follow him, but Slade has always been...different. Sharper, _darker._ Uncomfortable in a way that sets warning bells ringing in Dick's head.

Not that there's anything he can do about it except just get through it.

Slade's hand lands on Dick's shoulder again, and this time Dick can't stop himself from stiffening, not expecting Slade to try to touch him again. Slade squeezes, grip firm, and steps closer until Dick can feel Slade's warm breath against his temple. _Christ_ the man is big.

"Dickie?"

Dick's head snaps to the side. He hadn't heard Jason approach, but he's so relieved by his brother's presence, and he smiles. Jason's gaze is hard as it slides from Dick's face to the hand on his shoulder and then to Slade, eyes narrowing.

Slade's hand slips off of him, and he steps away. "I'll leave you to your brother," he says, but he sounds displeased. "See you later, Richard."

Jason glares at the man until he disappears into the crowd, and Dick takes the opportunity to take a few deep breaths, maybe get his hands to stop shaking. He hates that Slade can affect him so much by barely doing anything; it's stupid, to be so shaken up by something as small as a hand on his shoulder or a suggestive comment.

"You okay?" Jason asks, looking back to him with worried eyes.

"Fine, Jay," Dick says, offering the best reassuring smile he can manage.

Jason makes a noise of disagreement, but doesn't actually try to dispute his claim. "That guy's a creep," he says bluntly.

Dick laughs and nods. "Yeah, yeah he is."

"Why don't you step out, take a break?" Jason suggests. "This thing's got another—what?—three hours to go? Four, if Bruce really milks some of these assholes for donations? Go relax somewhere, come back fresh-eyed and bushy-tailed."

Dick returns the smile Jason offers him, and considers the idea. His eyes go over to Bruce, who is talking to some of the men Dick recognizes as WE board members, and then to Tim, who is giggling about something with Conner and Cass near the band. Damian has made a reappearance, the eight-year-old's attention focused on some sort of handheld gaming device, brow furrowed in determination.

"We'll survive half an hour without you," Jason encourages. "Go, find a comfy couch somewhere and chill."

"...Alright," Dick agrees. He knocks his shoulder lightly against his little brother's. "Alright, Jaybird, thanks. Text me if there's any emergency that needs my attention."

Jason chuckles and nods. "You got it. Now go; I'll hold down the fort."

So, Dick goes. He heads towards the double doors that will lead further into the Manor, towards the residence. He doesn't want to go too far, in case Bruce discovers his absence and demands he come back, or even if one of his siblings need him for something, so he ends up in the library down the hall from the ballroom.

It's not the Manor's main library, the large one you could really spend hours going through, but one of the five mini-libraries spread through the Manor, far more like studies with a couple desks and couches but with walls filled with books. It's nice and empty inside, and when he closes the door behind him he effectively cuts off all noise from the ballroom, which makes him let out a sigh of relief.

He loosens his tie a little and undoes the top button, then slides off his suit jacket before throwing himself down on one of the couches. He relaxes into it with a sigh, rolling out a crick in his neck, and stares up at the beautiful painting on the ceiling of the room. Bruce told him, once, that his mother loved painting, and would take to creating art in random locations through the Manor, often on walls or ceilings. Dick had quite a bit of fun growing up hunting them all down.

After a minute or so of just staring, Dick pulls out his phone and opens a game app at random, picking up where he left off whenever the last time he played was.

He's been doing that for maybe five minutes when the door to the study suddenly opens. Dick jerks upright, sure that it's Bruce or Alfred coming to scold him, but then his heart speeds up in his chest when he sees Slade Wilson.

"Hello, Richard," Slade greets, not at all surprised to see him. The man steps inside and shuts the door behind him, tilting his head as he idly looks Dick over.

"Slade," Dick says in response. His eyes flick towards the closed door, his hand clenching anxiously around his phone. "Get lost?"

Slade doesn't say anything as he takes a few strolling steps into the room. Dick pops to his feet, stepping back nervously to keep the distance between them, and Slade's lips curve in amusement.

"No," Slade denies. "I noticed your absence; I hope that wasn't _my_ doing. I'd hate to drive you from your own party."

"More Bruce's party than mine," Dick says, but he barely hears his own words, heartbeat too loud in his ears. His eyes flick past Slade again, towards the closed door. There's no way to get to it without having to get closer to Slade, and Dick...really doesn't want to do that.

"You seem nervous," Slade comments lightly. "Why is that?"

"I'm not," Dick disagrees. Slade only smirks.

"Right," he says. "Of course not. That's good, then. Why don't you sit with me, Richard? Let's talk."

"I have to be getting back," Dick says. "Maybe some other time."

Hesitantly, breath catching in his lungs, he steps forward, walking on the other side of the couch. Maybe if he simply walks towards the door and leaves, that will be that. Slade's always been intense like now, but nothing's ever happened. He's just a creep. It's fine.

Slade watches him with a cocked eyebrow, looking amused, and Dick tries to not look as anxious as he feels, keeping his chin held high.

"Don't forget your jacket," Slade reminds him, and picks up Dick's suit jacket from where he tossed it over the back of a chair when he came in.

Dick hesitates and then shakes himself, stepping towards Slade. It's fine, this is fine. He's being paranoid.

"Thanks," Dick says tightly, reaching out for his jacket once he's close enough.

Slade still hasn't moved, expression still placid, easy-going. But when Dick's hand closes around the fabric of his suit jacket, Slade jerks it towards himself. Dick stumbles forward in surprise before his hand releases, but by that point he's very close to Slade, and it isn't hard for the man to grab Dick's arm.

Dick sucks in a sharp breath, yanking against the hold, but Slade's grip doesn't budge at all, pulling Dick closer.

"Let me go!" Dick growls, pushing against Slade's chest with his free hand, still trying to yank his arm out of Slade's hand. Slade only chuckles, unbothered, like someone playing tug of war with a puppy.

"Richard, calm down," Slade chides. He pulls Dick against himself, other hand dropping the suit jacket to catch Dick's free hand. Dick lets out a helpless noise, trying to wrench away, to not get himself trapped, but with barely any effort Slade has his wrist held tightly in his fist.

"Stop, what are you _doing,_ let go of me!"

Slade just smirks at him and begins walking forward, backing Dick against the wall. He controls Dick's attempts at escaping incredibly easily, manhandling him how he wants him until he's pinned against the wall.

"What the _fuck,_ Slade! Let me go!"

"You need to relax," Slade tells him condescendingly, and then he presses his mouth against Dick's own. Dick gasps in surprise, eyes going wide, and Slade laughs against his lips as he takes the opportunity, thrusting his tongue into Dick's mouth.

Dick thrashes against him, panic filling him and making his motions slightly wild. He doesn't want this, he needs to get out, Slade's acting like he's going to—going to—

Slade makes a sound of pleasure, hips rolling forward, and Dick realizes that the way he's been moving has only been successful in grinding himself against the man pinning him.

Dick bites down hard. Slade shouts and jerks back, releasing Dick's arm and wrist. Dick feels hope surge in him, starting to twist to run, but Slade's hand is already whipping through the air, the back of it connecting with Dick's cheek.

Dick cries out and sprawls onto the floor under the force of the hit, ears ringing. He shakes his head as he pushes himself up on his hands and knees, trying to get himself together. He needs to get out of here—this is so bad—he needs to _escape—_

Slade grabs him and yanks him to his feet and then begins pulling him along as he starts to walk. Dick yells, thrashing, clawing at Slade with his free arm, attempting to throw a punch. Slade catches his fist easily, grip bruising as he holds it, and then suddenly Dick's being forced down on his back over something.

His head slams back against wood and he cries out again, vision blurring for a moment. He feels large hands pawing over his body and groans a protest, blinking rapidly to try to get his thoughts in order again.

He feels the button of his pants get popped, the zipper pulled down. His heart stops beating for a moment. Then he _screams._

Slade's hand settles over Dick's mouth, cutting the nose off. Dick's nostrils flare as he tries to suck in air, and he reaches up to yank at Slade's hand, but his other hand catches Dick's quickly, pressing them into the wood of the—table?—desk above Dick's head.

The man leans over him, looking him in the eye. Despite how utterly panicked Dick is, Slade by contrast seems perfectly calm, gaze steady as his blue eye meets Dick's own.

"Just so you know," he murmurs, "no one from the ballroom will be able to hear you. The band is very loud, and we're far enough away that nothing is going to carry, especially not with how thick all these walls are. So I'm going to take my hand off of your mouth, and you can scream all you like, but it's not going to do you any good."

Tears prick at Dick's eyes, and true to his word Slade's hand slides off of his face, thumb briefly running over Dick's bottom lip before pulling away completely.

"Why are you doing this?" Dick asks. He tries to make it a demand, but his voice trembles.

Slade smiles at him, an expression that's pure condescension. "You're not a stupid boy," he says. "You're a rather clever one, in fact. It's something I like about you, Richard. So don't ask stupid questions."

Dick yanks against Slade's grip on his wrists and then screams again at the top of his lungs, screaming for help and thrashing against Slade as his panic builds. Slade winces at Dick's volume but doesn't try to cover Dick's mouth again, and Dick's scream tapers off to an afraid sob as Slade's free hand palms at Dick's crotch.

"No, _stop—"_

"I'll be gentle," Slade coos, smirking sharply down at him, and it rings so false that Dick sobs again. He tries to kick Slade, but the way the man is standing between his legs makes that completely ineffective.

Slade releases his wrists suddenly and Dick gasps in surprise, immediately throwing them up to hit Slade. The man growls in annoyance, jerking back, but doesn't go nearly far enough. Instead his hands clamp down on Dick's hips and he flips him over. Dick's stomach hits the surface of the desk and it knocks the breath out of him in a whoosh that leaves him gasping.

He feels two large hands cup his ass, squeezing, and a hum of pleasure from the man behind him. Dick screams again; he knows it's pointless, that no one is going to hear him, but he feels so _helpless_ and he has to do _something—_

Slade yanks Dick's pants and underwear down in one quick motion. Dick tries to hit back at him, breaths quickening with panic, but his position on his stomach prevents him from being able to actually connect a fist with Slade.

A hand presses between Dick's shoulder blades, keeping him very firmly pinned, and Dick hears Slade spit.

"No, no, no," Dick begs. "Please, _please,_ no, don't do this, Slade, _please—"_

"You beg so prettily," Slade sighs, pleased, and then forces himself very quickly inside of Dick.

This time, when Dick screams, it's completely involuntary. The pain is so much, it's like nothing he's ever felt before and he—

Blacks out.

When consciousness comes back to him, nothing is different.

Dick wishes he could say he woke up and Slade was finished, that this entire nightmare was over, but no. No, Slade is still—still—still _raping_ him, grunting as he thrusts again and again. Dick can't _breathe,_ can't think, his ass on fire. Slade didn't do any preparation, only a small amount of spit as lube. It—he wasn't even close to ready to take this, and it _hurts,_ god it hurts so much, he knows Slade must be tearing him up—

Dick cries, squeezing his eyes shut. His nails claw at the wood beneath him uselessly, unable to do anything except take whatever Slade gives him. He just wants it to be over, he just wants it to be over, God, please, let it be over.

It feels like it lasts a lifetime.

A lifetime until Slade's pace picks up slightly, drawing whimpers of pain from Dick. A lifetime until his hips stutter, a lifetime until he's filling Dick with his release. A lifetime until the—the _rapist_ pulls away, releasing his hold on Dick and stepping back.

Slade lets out a satisfied breath. "You've got quite the ass, kid," he praises. "We should do that again sometime."

Dick only sobs, pressing his face to the desk. It's over. It's over. It's over. Thank fuck, it's over.

His eyes snap back open when Slade touches his cheek, panic once again filling him. Slade looks down at him steadily, applying pressure against the side of his face to keep his head pinned in place.

"You know," Slade says, tone conversational. "Your little brother _Tim_ is the same age you were when I really considered fucking you for the first time."

Dick can't even begin to describe the feeling that fills him. The disgust, the hatred, the panic, the _fear._

"I want you to remember that," Slade continues, "when you consider telling anyone about what just happened."

He's threatening Tim. He's threatening to—to _rape_ Tim if Dick tells anyone. Fresh tears spill from Dick's eyes.

"Do you understand?" Slade asks. "Verbal confirmation, Richard."

Dick swallows, taking a deep breath, trying to get the strength to speak. "Yes," he says hoarsely. "I—understand."

Slade smiles and releases him. "Very good."

Then he turns and heads for the door, straightening his clothes as he goes. Then he's gone.

* * *

Dick doesn't move for a very long time.

He's not bound, he's not being held down, and yet moving seems utterly impossible. His body is too heavy, his mind too filled with static. He just can't do it. It's an impossible task.

It becomes less impossible as time goes on. Eventually, he gets himself to push himself up on his elbows, whimpering as even that small motion makes his—his ass throb with pain. He stays in that position for a long moment, and then plants his feet the best he can, slowly pushing himself into a standing position, hands braced on the desk.

He can feel disgusting liquid sliding down his thighs, and it makes him want to vomit. A sob hitches in his chest, and he shifts his weight, testing. That hurts. _Everything_ hurts.

Bending down to pull up his underwear and pants is a Herculean task, and takes him quite a while. But he manages it.

And then it is one step after another towards the door. His legs give out only once, and he manages to push himself back up. He manages to put on his suit jacket. He manages to not shatter into a million pieces.

Walking gets easier the longer he does it, if only because it becomes easier to ignore how much it truly hurts. The feeling of Slade's _cum_ on him, _inside_ of him is the worst of it, really, leaving him feeling dirty and _claimed,_ and that's the sensation that he works the hardest to block out.

He heads towards the stairs that will take him to the residence wing of the Manor, will take him to his bedroom which he will not be leaving for a long time. Unfortunately he has to head past the ballroom doors for that, and the idea of getting closer to Slade again makes Dick's heart seize in his chest with anxiety.

He keeps his gaze resolutely forward, not looking into the ballroom as he passes. He keeps his head held high, expression worked into calm blankness only by years of practice lying for the public and the media.

He makes it ten feet past the ballroom doors when he hears, "Dick."

Dick goes rigid, breath catching in his lungs, but he knows that voice, that's _Bruce's_ voice, not Slade. So he turns around, breathing slow and deep, trying to stay calm. Trying to fight the urge to throw himself into his father's arms and sob.

"Hey, B. What's up?"

Bruce doesn't look happy. He's looked happy all night, what's wrong? Why does he look so irritated? Is he really that upset Dick ducked out? Dick's pretty sure he's already paid for it.

He has to suppress a hysterical giggle.

"Did you really have to do this tonight?" Bruce asks, aggrieved. "You just got back, couldn't you wait a few days before doing something as irresponsible as this?"

Dick blinks slowly, not comprehending. "I—what?"

"I get that you and Wilson have had some sort of _thing_ or _flirtation_ the last few years—"

_Dick can't breathe—_

"—but sneaking off to have sex with him during a gala?" Bruce shakes his head, lips pressed into a thin line. "I'm disappointed."

"Bruce," Dick says, voice wrecked.

"We'll discuss this more later," Bruce says firmly. "Once the guests have gone. Go to bed."

And then Bruce turns and heads back into the ballroom without another word. But Dick is frozen, stuck still, staring after him. Bruce thinks...Bruce thinks Dick _chose_ to sleep with Slade? Did Slade say that? Is Slade—is Slade _bragging?_ Is he making it seem like they hooked up?

Dick doubles over, hand bracing on his knees as he gasps for air. No, no he can't panic, not yet, not here. He can freak out once he's gotten to his bedroom, if he needs to. Not here, in the middle of a hallway.

He manages to push himself back upright and then continue on his way, forcibly breathing deeply with each step.

Slowly, he makes his way to the staircase, and up the stairs, and down the hall, and into his bedroom. He shuts the door behind him and walks to the door to his bathroom, shrugging out of his suit jacket as he goes. Pulls off his tie, then unbuttons his shirt with shaking fingers. He focuses on each task, not on why. Just each small task, that's all that matters.

He turns on the shower, lets it warm, steps inside. He wraps his arms around himself and presses his forehead against the wall of the shower, squeezing his eyes shut. Tears slip down his cheeks, and he shakes.

"Master Richard?"

Dick's eyes snap back open, and he gasps when he feels the water on his skin, ice cold. When he stepped in, it had been almost cruelly hot. How long has he been in the shower? How had he not noticed?

And then he realizes there's a reason he came back to awareness, and his head jerks to the side, eyes wide as he sees Alfred standing in the bathroom, face lined with concern as he looks at Dick.

"Alfred," Dick says weakly.

And for some reason Alfred's expression cracks with grief, and he steps forward, slowly reaching out to turn off the shower. Dick doesn't move, his entire body shuddering from the cold, but when Alfred offers him a towel he accepts it, pulling it close to his body and wrapping it around his hips. He feels exposed, raw, a millisecond from breaking into a million pieces.

"Come on, my boy," Alfred says gently. "Why don't you step out, and we can get you warmed up."

Dick would actually rather never move, not ever, never again. He'd like to melt into a puddle of goo and stop existing, just rinse away down the drain. That sounds like a far better existence than this awful, horrible thing he's been given.

But he does as Alfred asks nonetheless, stepping out of the shower and then following the other man back into his bedroom. He watches Alfred fetch him a pair of clean pajamas and then bring them over, setting them on the bed.

"Do you need help?" Alfred asks, kind and nonjudgmental. Dick's gut tightens with shame anyway, and he shakes his head mutely.

Getting the shirt on is easy, and then he hesitates to drop the towel, taking a few deep breaths before doing so, letting it fall to the floor.

And then he has to stare at it, because there's—there's red stained on it. Blood. Dick's stomach rolls.

Alfred looks down at the towel and swallows heavily before looking back up at Dick. His expression hasn't changed, still kind, still patient, still _Alfred._ But there's a deeper level of understanding of the situation that is impossible to ignore.

"Do you need help with the pants?" Alfred asks gently.

Dick wishes he could say no, but he doesn't think he can manage to put on pants by himself again in his state, so he nods. He can't meet Alfred's eyes as the man kneels to help him slip each leg into the pants, then drawing them up until they sit around Dick's hips.

"There we are," Alfred says. "Why don't you get into bed, Master Richard? I'll bring you some tea and pain medication, and then you can get some rest. We can address everything else in the morning."

That sounds good, except— "Alfred?"

He hates how small, how _timid_ he sounds. Alfred doesn't comment on it, just looks at him.

"You—" Dick clears his throat, looking away. "Don't tell Bruce."

Out of the corner of his eye, Dick sees Alfred stiffen. "Master Richard—"

"Please," Dick begs, and meets Alfred's eyes again, his own wet with unshed tears. "Please, just—please, Al. Let me...let—I...please."

Alfred looks heartbroken by the request, but he nods his agreement all the same, and Dick knows Alfred wouldn't lie about something like this.

"Alright, Master Richard," he says gently. "Now, get into bed. I'll be back shortly."

"Thanks, Alfred," Dick whispers, and climbs onto his bed and under the covers, ignoring the way every movement hurts in some way or another. He pulls the covers up over his head and squeezes his eyes shut, counting his breaths like when he was a child and the Manor used to feel far too big to be a home.

He's asleep before Alfred returns, and he's cowardly grateful for the fact that he doesn't have to face the man—or what's happened to him—again just yet.

* * *

By breakfast the next morning, it's clear that word has spread.

Bruce reads his paper with a clenched jaw and pursed lips. Tim and Damian are joking about it, teasing Dick. Cass has her face stuck in a book. Jason is watching Dick with narrowed, suspicious eyes. Alfred keeps his head held high and blinks away wet eyes when no one's looking.

And Dick eats his cereal, and doesn't say a word.


End file.
